April is the month of death,
That comes with a beacon call.
Lightning, thunder, purple skies,
A sign of what’s to befall.
The earth shall soon split into cracks,
And all things big and small,
Will wonder why they were born,
To fight a losing war.
The sun shall soon suck the life,
That it had once created.
All things shall self implode,
The law of nature, it’s fated.
For all that lived and died,
Has left its eternal seeds,
In the crevices of the Earth,
Amidst the dead burnt weeds.
All that life needs now,
Is just the promise of rain.
Then May will turn to June,
And hope will pour down again.
